Feathers and Fedoras
by daisychainofoddities
Summary: Dean and Castiel are happily shacked up in Alaska, adjusting to their new, domestic lives. Dean has a bit of a fetish, dressing Cas up before they watch "The Untouchables" together. But Cas is easily distracted, and the ensemble ends up on the floor before long. Destiel; fluff and smut; slightly AU as all of Team Free Will is alive and well. Please review, and thanks!


"Dean, I don't understand the importance of the hat."

The angel was standing in the doorway of the walk-in closet, fidgeting with the scarlet tie around his neck. The black fedora was perched at a cocky angle on his head, and Castiel's eyes kept flitting upward, as though distracted by the brim casting a shadow over his forehead. Dean found himself torn between amusement, arousal, and perhaps a little pinch of pity for the confused angel.

"Just—go with it, okay?"

Cas heaved a sigh and the wide shoulders of his suit bulged through the overcoat. Dean crossed his legs and leaned back into the swivel chair, an expression of utter delight on his face. Cas loved to see him this way: eyes crinkling at the corners, full lips upturned and the straight teeth revealed. Again, the angel had to marvel at his own handiwork. Dean's every nuance, his every miniscule movement, was a testament to Castiel's near-forgotten strength. He had once been powerful enough to remake this beautiful human from scratch, sculpting each detail with the finesse of a seasoned artist. Now, Cas had fallen so far from grace that he considered himself lucky to be capable of shaving his face without nicking himself. Still, the domestic life was not entirely without perks.

"All you need is a briefcase and a cigar," Dean was muttering, his jade eyes sweeping the angel up and down. "And you could be Sean Connery's partner in crime."

"I don't understand—,"

"The reference, yeah, Cas. I know. You never do." Dean got to his feet and put his hands in the pockets of his own heavy grey overcoat. With a smirk he said, "That's why I'm going to teach you."

He extended a hand and after a moment of hesitation, Castiel took it gladly. He felt the familiar rush of electricity when their fingers touched, and he had to remind himself that no matter how much it felt as though his human heart would stop, this was only yet another sensation to get used to. He wasn't having a heart attack. He wasn't dying. He was in love.

Cas followed Dean into the den, tripping slightly in his stiff new patent leather shoes. When Dean had driven him an hour out of town to a musky, smoke-filled secondhand shop under the guise of "research", this had been the last thing Cas expected. But the look on Dean's face when the angel walked out of the flimsy changing stall dressed in a pinstriped suit and shiny loafers had been more than enough to make the trip worthwhile. During the drive home, Dean had played a cassette Cas hadn't seen before, one with a peeling navy-blue label picturing a night sky and the words, "Blue Moon". The voice that drifted smoothly from the speakers had been much different from the usual raw-throated, rough vocals of what Dean called 'classic rock'. At first, the slowness of the song had made Cas feel a little sleepy. (With his recent dip into humanity, he had discovered the seductive beauty of sleep, and since then had been struggling to cope with the heaviness of exhaustion. He often wondered how humans fought the urge to simply sleep all the time. An eternity of existence surely would have passed much more quickly if he had spent some portion of it asleep.) But after a few bars, the melody lured him in, and Cas had spent the remainder of the drive singing along, much to Dean's apparent pleasure. The hunter hadn't even complained when Castiel played the song over and over, restarting "Blue Moon" from the beginning the very second the last note faded. "Who would have guessed you'd have the voice of an angel?" Dean had murmured softly, eyes straight ahead, but hand snaking across the middle console to take Castiel's.

"Cas? Hey, you with me?" Dean was asking, and Cas broke from the warm reverie at once.

"Yes. Sorry. What are we doing?"

Dean pulled him to the sofa. "We are going to watch a movie," he said, reaching under the cushion for the remote. (How it always ended up there, Cas couldn't be certain, but he imagined it had something to do with the frequent sexual acts that took place on the couch. The remote was simply safer tucked away under the seat.) "Not just any movie. This is a classic. A legend."

"What is it called?"

Dean raised his hands and parted the air with a flourish. "_The Untouchables_."

"How long is this film, Dean?" Castiel inquired, pointedly, eyeing the point at which their knees touched. Dean was entirely wrapped up in the credits scrolling across the screen, his expression similar to that of a child's at a circus. Or a man at a strip club, perhaps. The first several minutes of the movie passed without much effect—Cas was largely uninterested in watching anything outside of porn or Shark Week. (Although he was glad to endure Dean's favorite soap opera, purely for the pleasure of watching Dean's face as the drama unfolded.) Upon noticing the angel's eyes upon him, Dean flashed him a scandalized look.

"Pay attention! Come on!" the hunter hissed. Cas hurriedly returned his focus to the screen, sinking back into the couch. Dean's mouth twitched, fighting a snort at the pouting angel. For a millennia-old creature, Cas could certainly do a fantastic impression of a bitter child. "It gets better."

"I hope so," the angel growled in response, arms crossed. Dean threw an arm back around Castiel's shoulders. The angel shivered and wriggled in closer. It was a reflexive position by this point: Cas curled into the curve of Dean's side. Outside of the house, few people who saw the pair of them would ever guess their relationship. Dean was not overly affectionate, and Castiel was often too nervous and uncomfortable in public to do anything but stiffly shuffle along behind. But miles away from the other houses in the woodsy neighborhood, within the peeling walls of the cottage, the hunter and his angel fell easily into closeness. Sam had commented more than once on the fact that Cas followed Dean from room to room like a kitten after its mother, and asked, "How is that not annoying?" to which Dean had replied, "What? Having an angel on my shoulder all the time? It's not so bad. Better than the alternative." Sam had grimaced at the memory of Lucifer's voice in his head, and Dean had immediately regretted his words. Even after all these years, he generally knew better than to bring up certain parts of the past. But Dean was defensive, still unnerved by his own tenderness toward Cas, and having it brought to his face was not something he enjoyed. He was never particularly tactful, and surely spending all this time with a socially-inept ex-soldier of the Lord couldn't possibly be helping.

Dean had never been this close with anyone but his brother, and while the idea of being so vulnerable startled him, he supposed he was lucky that at least he had fallen for someone who fell even further for him.

Elliot Ness was on the screen now, and Dean gave an enthusiastic sort of yelp. "I've met him. I met that guy. The real Ness."

Cas gave him a quizzical glance. "The actor?"

"No, Cas. The real Elliot Ness," Dean emphasized, eyes wide. He nodded, the lips pursed and eyebrows raised. He was the very image of smugness. Cas decided to leave it at that.

Twenty minutes or so dragged by, and as hard as he tried, Cas couldn't seem to keep his eyes on the movie. There was a much more entertaining show going on right beside him, as Dean silently mouthed certain lines of dialogue, positively glowing as the television cast Technicolor lights across his face. Cas watched from the corner of his eye, careful not to make it obvious that he was completely ignoring the movie. He watched as Dean's tongue licked his lips, as he scratched vacantly behind one ear. The hunter's eyes never broke away from the screen. Castiel's own eyes were traveling- along the slope of Dean's nose, over the shape of his lips, the strong line of his jaw. Cas's hands twitched in his lap as he longed to touch each freckle individually, feel the light stubble forming on Dean's chin, the sure sign of a long weekend away from the garage. Cas liked him this way; a little rough. But then, he thought, he liked Dean almost any way, really.

Suddenly a smile cracked the hunter's face and he recited a line aloud, "You can get further with a kind word and a gun than you can with just a kind word." Dean laughed. "Ain't that the truth." He turned to Cas, and the angel was a moment too late in turning away, because Dean's next words were, "You still aren't even watching, are you?"

Cas nodded. "Of course I'm watching. They are searching for a man called Ness. They all have guns. And they are dressed like I am."

Dean appraised him for a long thirty seconds before replying, "Yes, they are."

Castiel made a move to remove the hat from his head (it was getting itchy), but Dean's hand shot out to stop him. "No, no, leave it on."

"But Dean, it itches. I don't like it. I don't understand the point—."

But the angel's words were cut short by the sensation of lips pressed against his own. A splayed hand reached up, wrapping itself behind the base of the fedora on Cas's head, and pulled him closer. Dean's other hand knotted in the red tie and Cas exhaled into the kiss. Lips parted, he felt Dean's tongue push into his mouth and the angel's hands moved almost of their own accord, roving up the loose, rough fabric on the hunter's chest, fumbling at the little grey buttons that held it together. But Dean pushed his hands back down and broke away. Cas let out a frustrated groan, blue eyes cloudy with desire. The hunter smirked and shook his head.

"Watch the damn movie," he grunted, and scooted to the end of the couch. Castiel stared in utter disappointment at the empty spot beside him, displeased with the sudden removal of Dean's body heat. The angel's eyes flicked to the screen momentarily, and then with a clearing of his throat, he got to his feet and stood in front of Dean.

"What are you doing? You're blocking the screen!" Dean barked, craning to look around Castiel. But the angel merely lowered himself down to climb into Dean's lap, much to the hunter's surprise. Fedora still balanced on his head, Cas arranged himself so that his legs bent on either side of Dean's, thighs flush together. "Uh, we're missing all the good stuff—," Dean mumbled half-heartedly. Cas smiled. It was still an unusual sight to see.

"No, Dean. This is the good stuff," Cas replied, his voice all gravel and sex. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Dean's, lightly, cruelly. Dean's eyes fluttered shut as the angel took his bottom lip between his teeth gently at first, then with a sharp nip. Dean felt the familiar twinge below, and was suddenly incredibly aware of the proximity of Castiel's groin to his own. Almost as though he'd read his mind, Cas suddenly started to grind his hips forward, and Dean moaned into the angel's mouth. Yes, this was probably the good stuff.

"Cas, come on," Dean groaned, stubbornly clinging to the idea of simply watching the movie together. Just one quiet afternoon dedicated to his gangsters-in-fedoras fetish. But Cas's left hand was unzipping Dean's trousers and his mind immediately thought, _Hey, I've got an _angel_ in a fedora; that's gotta be some kind of fetish all on its own_. As the fingers slipped down between bare skin and boxers, Dean trembled. The angel's hands were cold as his breath was warm, but the sensation was only intensified when Castiel wrapped his fingers around Dean's cock.

"We can watch the movie later," Cas reasoned as his hand worked up and down. Dean couldn't possibly bring himself to argue. He tugged at the red tie, so that Cas came crashing into him, and Dean breathed deeply the smell of the green-apple soap Cas always chose. He knew the reason Cas picked that particular bar of soap every time, and it had nothing to do with the smell. Cas was always choosing items in the same shade of green—that shade that stared back at Dean when he looked into the mirror. Dean pressed his lips into the slightly damp skin at Castiel's neck, marveling in the fact that he was human enough to produce sweat nowadays. This was almost as interesting as the fact that Dean's presence was enough to induce sweat in the first place.

The angel's hand began to move faster and Dean's breath caught in his throat. Feeling the preliminary waves of pleasure, he sucked deeply on the pale skin under his lips. He knew it was a little painful, maybe, but he also knew from experience that Cas enjoyed the pain as much as he did_. I wonder which one of us is the bigger masochist_? Dean thought idly. His teeth grazed the pinkish bruise forming in the crook of Cas's neck and a deep rumble of appreciation broke from the angel's lips. They each had an alarmingly high threshold for pain, and after awhile Dean had come to realize that he was hardly capable of actually hurting Cas. He was able to push Castiel much further, toe the line between torture and pleasure with near-abandon, safe in the knowledge that he need not be gentle. Cas could hold his own. It was liberating to fuck someone who matched him in strength, in power. He didn't have to hold back with Cas. Everything was allowed, and Cas gave him anything he asked for, no matter how strange or painful. Dean knew he could never ask anything truly awful or humiliating—he simply loved the angel too much to want to cause him actual harm. But he relished the idea that the whole spectrum of sexual experimentation was open to him.

He drew a quick breath as Cas's fingers slipped upward, stroking deftly over the head. Dean's hands searched blindly across the stretch of the angel's hips, under the trench coat, to untuck the white collared shirt and claw up Castiel's back. He dragged his bitten nails down hard, and the angel's hips bucked. Suddenly, it became incredibly important that Dean leave as many marks on Cas's body as possible. He wanted to bite, tear, and bruise the white, shivering flesh and make it his own. He wanted to carve his name, his claim, into the milky skin—a brand to rival the handprint seared into Dean's shoulder.

"Cas," he whispered, digging his fingernails into the soft flesh of the angel's shoulder blades, his knuckles tight against the satiny shirt. Castiel whimpered and Dean felt the angel panting on his shoulder, breathing raggedly. Eager to stoke the fire, Dean unbuttoned Cas's shirt quickly (years of hurried sexual encounters in various locked closets and hotel bathrooms had made him an expert) and pushed the angel back. The hat fell to the floor, but Dean's fingers only grasped at Cas's back, supporting his weight as Dean trailed kisses along the exposed collarbone.

"I thought—you wanted—the hat to stay," Cas choked out, his hand still working inside Dean's pants. The hunter lurched forward a little, pressing into Cas's grip.

"Forget the hat," he muttered, and began pulling the coat and shirt away in a rush. "Forget the whole getup." Cas shrugged out of his clothes, leaving the tie hanging loosely and tossed over his shoulder. Years ago, Dean would have scoffed at the idea of a tie kink. But now as he surveyed the bare chest and flushed pink lips of his angel, he couldn't help but feel inclined to pull at the red piece of cloth, twisting it back tightly against the angel's throat. Cas gulped, and Dean decided it was time to move. With rather shocking ease, he started forward and lunged to his feet, the angel's legs still wrapped around his hips, his hand never losing its grip. Cas glanced at the floor, at the way his leather shoes dangled feet above the ground. Even though gigs were few and rare these days, Dean had made sure to keep in excellent shape—mainly for moments like these. Still, Cas was much lighter than he looked, and Dean wondered if perhaps there was a small chance the angel's wings helped keep him off the ground. Perhaps it was similar to the way one's body was lighter in saltwater.

"Where are we going?" Cas asked suddenly, his face questioning and hopeful. Dean began to carry him down the hallway, up the little step into the bedroom.

"We need a little more space, don't you think?" Dean replied before cradling Cas back into the mattress. Castiel's arms rose to embrace Dean as he fell into bed. They hurriedly removed the rest of their clothing and returned to lie flush with one another, skin-on-skin and eyes blazing, matching in intensity. For a few moments they did not move, content to sink into the shared warmth, and Cas reached to tug the sheets across them.

The angel murmured, "Dean, tell me what to do."

"What? You know," Dean's voice trailed off, confused. Cas licked his lips.

"No. I want you to tell me what you want."

Dean blinked several times before responding, "Well, that's new. Uh, in that case—I want you to just keep doing what you were doing before." Cas shook his head.

"Details, Dean. Tell me what you want. You can have anything."

At this, the hunter's groin twitched. He smirked. He had been such a fantastic influence on Cas thus far, but surely this was something he had learned from watching porn when Dean was at work. Regardless of where it came from, Dean was grateful. He whispered, "I want your mouth on my cock."  
"As you wish."

Cas nodded and slithered away under the sheets, leaving soft kisses in his wake as he trekked down the length of Dean's body. He planted a sweet, daring kiss at the tip of Dean's erection and promptly pulled the entirety of it into his mouth. Dean groaned at the wetness, the overwhelming heat and pressure. His fingers entangled themselves in the dark, tousled hair and he pressed down, hard. Cas did not falter. "God, how are you so good at this?"

He could swear he felt the angel smile around the cock in his mouth. He knew he was good. Cas drew him in tighter, hot breath washing across Dean's thighs. He shuddered and thrust upwards involuntarily, his eyes closing in the perfection of the moment.

"Cas," he gasped, and the angel stopped, pulling that sweet, hot mouth away. Dean let out a disappointed exclamation and he heard Castiel's muffled voice from beneath the sheets.

"Is this good for you, Dean?" came the rasping, teasing tone. Dean tore his fingers through the angel's hair.

"Yes, God, why did you stop?"

"I want you to talk to me, Dean. Tell me what you like. I want you to—instruct me."

This was a new level of intrigue. "Alright, well," Dean began uncertainly, "I want you to keep blowing me. Don't you let go for a second—."

And the wet hotness returned. Dean groaned. Afraid that the angel would stop again if he didn't keep talking, he continued: "Yeah, that's fucking perfect. Cas, I want you to suck me dry."

Dean had engaged in dirty talk many, many times before, but never this way. He had never been this direct, this blunt and course. Nuance had always been the key. But he realized now that the harsh words did more for him than he'd ever expected. And Cas was the last person in the world to really appreciate subtlety anyway, so why not bring out the big guns? "Fuck, Cas, I wanna fuck your gorgeous mouth. I want to come in your fucking throat."

Castiel's fingers traced down Dean's thighs and the hunter felt his spine tingle and his breath quicken. He was getting closer. _Tell him that_, he thought. "Oh, shit, Cas. It feels so fucking good. I don't know if I can hold on much longer."

The angel let go and emerged from the sheets, lips scarlet and swollen. Dean panicked, thinking maybe he'd somehow gone too far. He ached for the sensation to resume and he placed his palms on either side of the angel's stubbly face. "What? What's wrong?"

Cas smiled and rolled his eyes to the left. There was a faint whooshing sound and Dean jumped in shock as the black fedora slid across the floor of the hallway, flipping up the step and catapulting through the air to land on the throw pillow next to him. He watched in silent wonder as Cas picked it up and set it on his own head at a jaunty slant, then pulled the sheets away, and lowered his lips to the straining bulge between Dean's legs. The sight of the bare-assed angel with a fedora blowing him earnestly was nearly enough to send him over the edge alone.

"Don't—stop—Cas—!" he choked out, his breath stumbling out in bursts. The momentum increased and his arms reached back to grip the headboard. 'Oh, fuck, here it comes!"

The angel moaned into the orgasm and Dean let out a wild cry, hips plunging forward. When he opened his eyes he was greeted with the view of Cas's blue gaze upon him, the perfect pink tongue circling the dripping tip of Dean's cock. The hunter sighed.

"You know, this is really not what I had in mind for this afternoon," he drawled, bending his arms back behind his head comfortably. The angel sat up and laid a sticky hand on Dean's stomach.

"I'm sorry for spoiling your plans," Cas said, and Dean was moved a little by the sincerity of the apology. "I am still learning self-control. Human desires are—complicated."

Dean grinned and pulled the end of the tie so that he could catch the angel's lips in a kiss, unconcerned with the taste of his own come. "You got that right. Well, I love _The Unforgivables_ but I have to say I think I like this better." A light flickered in Castiel's eyes.

"That's good."

"So, uh, thanks for that. But what about you?" Dean prompted suggestively. Cas backed away and stood up to leave. "What the hell? Where are you going?"

Cas glanced back over his shoulder as he crossed into the hall. "After the movie," he replied, with a wink. _Oh, now he's stealing all my best moves_, Dean thought, with a hint of pride. He tilted his head appreciatively as he watched the naked angel disappear around the corner, a slim silhouette with a fedora.

He wondered if he could convince Cas to make this a regular ensemble.


End file.
